


Eins, Zwei, Drei

by RougeReii



Series: School Stories [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Holocaust, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 22:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RougeReii/pseuds/RougeReii





	Eins, Zwei, Drei

Frigid wind howls through the camp, its building’s painted white with snow. One by one, the living skeletons wander into the snow, rags of striped clothing barely providing the shivering figures reprieve from the cold. They form line by line, row by row. Small child to old man. Their hollow gazes blankly fixate on the soldiers, loaded rifles resting lazily on their shoulders. The counting begins. 

“Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben…,” The monotone voice washes over the living dead. Time marches by with no regard to their plight.

“We’re missing two,” barks the commander, “Search the camp.”

The uniformed men scatter in synch, methodically combing through the premise as if the missing souls could be hiding amongst the falling snowflakes. They discover the two in one of many overpopulated rooms. A woman of skin and bone lies upon the straw mattress, her dark hair forming an ebony halo. Her lips eternally parted in prayer for the false god of Jerusalem. A mouse-like child muffles their sobs into the chest of the deceased woman, her eyes red and puffy. She looks upon them with naive hope, the innocence of childhood still clinging to life. The child is snatched away from the corpse, flung carelessly over the soldiers’ shoulder. She watches as the other men drag the body away from the room. 

The soldier dumps her on the ground in front of the commander, steely eyes bearing down on the whimpering child. Her tears run like liquid ice down her cheeks. He turns away.

“Kill her.” 

The gunshot echoes. White snow blooms rose red. Death looms over the dusty pink that paints the horizon. A name and face lost to history, simply one of the millions that were robbed of their chance to live on the right side of the grave. 

….

The soldier watches as the day’s broken bodies are piled outside the furnace. He sees the child he killed, limbs splayed at awkward inhuman angles, almost covered by the man who had been thrown on top of her. He watches as her flesh turns to ash and her soul to smoke. Her small skull stands out against the hellish flames. 

It’s still there the next day, half black from soot and decorated with web-like cracks. A blink. The girl sits cross legged around her skull, her hand slowly tracing the cracks. She looks him dead in the eye, a sullen look on her face. The sunlight filters through her skin, ground visible through her striped clothing. 

“This is mine, isn’t it?” her voice is light and airy, yet carries weight undefined by age but instead by great tragedy.

He gives a stunned nod, “How?” he stutters.

“God works in funny ways, Mister, or at least that's what my ma tells me. She says everything happens for a reason. Even this.”

“You are but a child. You know nothing of how the world works, nor will you ever. I made sure of that.”

She ignores him, “Does my death make you sad?”

“No.”

“Why not? It’s a sad thing”

“Not when it is cleansing the world of your kind.”

“When you are dead as well, we’ll be no different in the end,” she attempts to lift the skull, only for her hands to glide through the bone. She pouts, “I thought you might have been different. You used to be kind.”

“I still am kind.”

“But yet you are now a killer.”

The soldier storms over to the girl, hand passing through the girl’s neck. She blinks up at him innocently, before vanishing without a trace. He stomps on the skull and it shatters. He hears the wind repeating the little girl’s words. 

….

The girl appears on the edge of his bed, swinging bare feet back and forth. He scowls. She smiles.

“Go away demon. I shall not fail My Lord.”

“I’m not a demon, Mister.”

“You speak too well to be a child, you are certainly using this form to mock me, a careless and truly weak charade.”

She tilts her head, brown locks casting shadows across her rosy cheeks, “Death does some funny things to a person, Mister.”

“Not to me it doesn’t,” the girl gives him a sad smile before vanishing before his eyes.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

….

He’s watching over the living dead when she skips up beside him. They don’t look up from the ground, ridges of their rounded backs catching on the flimsy fabric. A man collapses, and the other soldiers drag him away from the frost covered field. His fellow hollow souls don’t give him a passing glance.

“They tell me to watch you, Mister.” 

“Who does?” He doesn’t look at her.

“My family. They want revenge. They want you to understand our pain,” she tugs on his pant leg and he flinches when the fabric moves, “No privacy with constant surveillance.”

“I have my own problems.”

“Like why you sit and watch. Watch and follow. It’s because you are afraid to be different when you know the consequences. It’s the easy way out mister.”

“I had no choice.”

“There is always a choice. You just let them make one for you.”

He ignores the girl. The tugging ceases. Phantom fingers wrap around his neck sending electricity down his spine. His breath caught in his throat, hands flying to free himself only to meet with his own cold skin. Air rushes back into his lungs, the bitter chill causing him to cough. Another young soldier looks at him with concern. 

“Are you ok?” He questions. 

“Yeah, I just have a cold,” he responds, “Say, Hubert, do you remember the little girl I killed a couple days ago?”

Hubert snorted, “Which one? You need to be a bit more specific.”

…

The girl follows him for weeks. Small jeers and light touches tease him constantly. He sees the girl once again, standing behind him as he gets dressed in front of the mirror. She sways daintily from side to side in an irregular rhythm. He turns to her, the deep brown emptiness of her eyes was only masked by a thin veil of confusion. 

“You were right. I am a killer.”

She nods. 

He collapses onto his knees, fingers digging painfully into the floor as he dropped his head to the ground. He doesn’t allow himself to cry. A soft hand smooths through his hair, rhythmic and unyielding. 

“To be or not to be,” he lifts his head, staring at her as she continues, “When you could just settle all of your debts using nothing more than an unsheathed blade?”


End file.
